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All posts for the month September, 2007

IT’S RAINING JEWS

Published September 29, 2007 by jean cohen

I had a date with Moshe Thursday night.  Yeah, yeah.  I know.  This is getting boring.  Better I should write about Scrabble with Scary Fairy?  Or my doctor’s appointment?  Blood pressure’s perfect if you’re keeping score at home.  Don’t worry.  Pinkie arrives on Sunday, so the blog next week should be juicy.

 

Pinkie is in Salt Lake City now at her Conference.  Apparently she has located the only speakeasy in Utah where they serve booze.  I keep getting unintelligible texts in the middle of the night.  I got one announcing that she had bought a Donovan McNabb jersey so we can both wear them Sunday night at the Sports Bar G-man fan Pat is taking us to to watch the Eagles-Giants game.  Hopefully, Pinkie will not start a Zinfy-fuelled free-for-all with the New Yawkers.  Yes, I remember; I have done it once.  But it was in Dallas and they were goddamned Cowboys fans, and no one got seriously hurt.  Oh, okay, that time in Phoenix…and the time in St. Louis…it was too fricking cold in Cleveland to work up the enthusiasm to start a riot no matter what you heard.  And it doesn’t count if it’s a Flyers game, and it’s in D.C.

 

I did have a strange experience this week.  I locked myself out of the house.  That isn’t, of course, the strange part; everybody in King of Prussia and Weybridge had keys to my house for just that eventuality.  It happened…a lot.  I just don’t know anybody in Clifton to give keys to.  My phones were in the house too; I don’t know anybody’s numbers.

 

I walked across the street and called on a neighbor.  I explained my dilemma, and asked to borrow the Yellow Pages and the phone.  Actually, she was pretty nice.  She didn’t let me into the house, maybe because I don’t sound like I live at Exit Whatever on the Garden State, but let me sit on her steps and call an Emergency Locksmith.  Tony will be here in forty-five minutes?  Okay.  I’ll live.

 

As promised, about an hour later, a little black van pulls up, and the hottest guy I have ever seen (well, not as hot as Stefano at Hedonism, but hot, if you know what I mean) gets out.  I explain the situation.  I think about sexual connotations; unlock – open – keys – whatever.  As he takes out his big tool – gottcha –  we’re just chatting, and I get suspicious.  He has an accent, and it’s not North Jersey.

 

“Hey, Locksmith Guy” I asked smoothly, “Where are you from?”  I am afraid he is going to say “Syria” or “Iran” or something.  Honestly, I am so totally an Arab-magnet.  Locksmith Guy goes “Haifa”.   Haifa? Like, as in Haifa, Israel?” I said gobsmacked.  “Yes.  Have you been to Israel?” he purrs with those liquid brown eyes caressing me.  (Big lie)  Wow.  I’m glad I atoned for all those pesky little sins for Yom Kippur just in case there is a God and He happens to be Jewish.  Yahweh, or Adonai, is keeping his end of the bargain.  It’s raining Jews; Halleluya.  Suddenly, everywhere I turn, I’m tripping over Jewish guys.  I am in Pig Heaven.  Yeah…right.  Not Pig Heaven.  Maybe Kosher Beef Heaven? I quickly mumble the ‘Blessing Over the Hannukah Minorah”.  It’s the first one I thought of.  I’m not even certain there’s a “Thank You for Sending a Jewish Locksmith Who is Really Hot” prayer.

 

“Of course” he says, “’Tony’ is my American nickname; my name is Hagay”.  I am in lust.  Honesty compels me to report that when repeating this story to Scary Fairy later that evening, she wondered (out loud) if the British Embassy had somehow gotten wind of my proclivity for men with aliases and found it a tiny bit sinister.

 

Hagay had to break the goddamned lock.  But it’s all good.  This meant he would have to come back, twice, to put in a new lock. 

 

Back to my date.  Sorry.  Check back next week for exactly what Hagay said when I was wearing my ‘You Had Me at Shalom’ shirt when he came back.

 

Somehow Moshe (‘Jim’ to the British Embassy) and I have fallen into a routine; we see each other twice a week.  Does anyone know?  Am I ‘going steady’?  Since I didn’t realize I was ‘dating’ in the first place, now I am worried that I am in even deeper shit than I realized.  And he emails – a lot.  I know this did not happen in the olden days; computers weren’t invented yet!  Will somebody please clarify for me exactly when one is suddenly ‘in a relationship’?  Is there a party, and gifts?  If yes, what should I wear?

 

And another thing; how long does a date last?  Scary Fairy looked at me very disapprovingly as she said, “What time did you come in?  I went to bed at 3:00 and you weren’t home yet.”  I was very grateful that she doesn’t have the authority to ground me.  “Umm” I prevaricated, “Around 4:30.”  She started to ask what we could possibly have been doing until 4:30 in the morning, but I gave her a Jeano Look, and warned, “Don’t even go there or I might have to really tell you.”  Last night was an early night; I was home by 3:00.  He picked me up at 6:00.

 

I know what you’re pondering.  Yeah.  No.  Possibly.  I don’t give a monkey’s chuff what you think.

 

We had dinner, and then went to Moshe’s.  He had finally finished a video that he’d been working on for several months, and wanted me to see the finished product.  So I watched ‘Jared K****man’s Third and Final Bar Mitzvah’, the entire hour and a half.  Jared really did have three bar  mitzvahs; two in Israel and one in New York.  A quick run-down:  Jared’s Mom didn’t look that terrific, I think I saw that suit at Loehmann’s;  I loved the table settings at the luncheon, balloons instead of flowers, but the colors- maroon and grey – very elegant; they had a machine that took a digital picture of the guests and then it got baked onto a piece of chocolate; the DeeJay wasn’t great, they couldn’t afford a band?  The cake, for the thirteen candles, was a huge disappointment.  It looked like they picked it up at Costco’s on the way to the synagogue.  One neat touch; as Moshe filmed, the video was played on a giant screen, so people could watch themselves having a hell of a good time at Jared’s Bar Mitzvah.   Of course, I was meant to be paying attention to the pictures, special effects, graphics, music selection, etc.  Moshe said Jared’s Mom was involved in every decision of what to include, song choices, and so on.   They had a conference every week.  Oh.  Steven Spielberg’s brother was at the Bar Mitzvah.

 

Moshe was mixing some music for other videos he’s editing, so we fooled around with the music mixing program for a while.  Then we fooled around.

Note to Scary Fairy:  If you are reading this, no.  We didn’t.  We played Scrabble.  Three really long, intense games.

 

 

 

 

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BASHERT? VER VAIST?

Published September 28, 2007 by jean cohen

I got lots of emails, again, on the last blog; especially on the subject of JAPs.    Scads of people sent jokes, poems, death threats.  That was a joke; it was family and they weren’t kidding.  Anyway, most of the jokes were dirty, but here’s one:  Did you see the new Jewish American Princess horror movie?  Debbie Does Dishes.

 

And, in the style of Jeff Foxworthy, You Might Be a Jewish American Princess if:

 

.           You actually know the difference between carats and karats

 

.           Your new house has 12,000 sq. ft. but no kitchen

 

.           Your sukkah has wall to wall carpeting and window treatments

 

.           Your hair stylist had the first Aliyah at your son’s Bar Mitzvah

 

.           It takes eight gifts to get you ‘in the mood’ during Chanukah

 

.           Your favorite wine is: “I want to go to Miami Beach!”

 

.           Your dog owns more clothing and toys than your neighbor’s children

 

.           You’ve actually had diamond studs soldered into your earlobes

 

.           The only thing you know how to make for dinner is reservations

 

.           Neiman Marcus is #2 on your cell’s speed dial

 

I had a date with Moshe on Sunday night.  He rang on Friday and asked if I wanted to go to a Schmooze at the Kaplen JCC on the Palisades.  A Schmooze? How totally cool! You can bet I said “Laklutn!  Az Oy!”  Moshe said, “Is that ‘yes’ in English?”  I said, “Ot Gaist Du!” and started thinking, naturally, about what to wear.  The other JAPs would obviously be carefully checking out the newest Princess in the sovereign kingdom of North Jersey.

 

“Okay” Moshe said.  “It’s in Tenafly.”  Tenafly?  Where the fuck is ‘Tenafly’?  It sounds like that mosquito disease.  Is that the United States?  He explained that it’s in New Jersey, somewhere, up the Garden State Parkway, towards Canada or something.  The ‘Garden State’, as the major highway is known familiarly, is the Yellow Brick Road in Tomatoland.  When one meets people in North Jersey and asks where they’re from, they never say “Montclair” or ‘Passaic” or whatever.  They proudly announce “I grew up right by Exit 153 on the Garden State, but now I live right off Exit 187!”  Wow, I bet that’s hard to get into those little blocks on application forms. 

 

And just because this is Mallville, New Jersey the Eagles game wasn’t on telly; really.  I didn’t make that up.  Why on earth would anyone want to watch a Jets game?  Unless someone was holding a gun to your head.  But I did, so I could monitor the Two Minute Ticker for the scores, in between changing outfits (six times). 

 

 Moshe is never any help with the dressing dilemma.  He always says,  “Wear whatever you want.”  “Yeah” I whined, “But give me a clue.  Are they Jappy JAPS or Jersey Girl JAPs?”  “What’s a ‘Jersey Girl’?” clueless Israeli Guy asked, mystified.  I sighed.  Men are such hard work.  “You know.  Carmela Soprano, but at the synagogue?  Really big hair?  Really tight sweaters?  Lots of black eyeliner?  Tons of gold jewelry?  But chais or Stars of David instead of crucifixes?” 

 

I settled on casual elegant; absolutely stunning black trousers and the drop dead gorgeous new sweater I got in Philly, (THE color for Fall), accessorized by M. Vuittan and diamonds; Philly JAP all the way.  We drove through the Indian reservations and tomato fields to Tenafly.  It wasn’t that bad.  It looks just like all the rest of Jersey, with a diner on every corner.  The JCC looked like every single one I’ve ever been in, too, even down to ‘Avi, the Bar Mitzvah Boy’s, Record Hop’ in the Ballroom.  Mazel Tov, Avi!

 

The Schmooze, which is actually a Singles’ Group, was a lot of fun. The first person I met was a guy named Steve.  Careful questioning elicited name, rank and serial number, plus, naturally, occupation, annual income, party affiliation.  Oddly enough, it turns out that he went to Temple University, too, and shares my passion for Lee Andrews and the Hearts.  Even oddlier, he’s a videographer, too.  He actually lived in Bala Cynwyd for a while (before he moved to Exit 174 on the Garden State) and we had a long natter about Mom’s; he thinks they’re the best cheese steaks in Philly.  He does like the G-men, but, hey, nobody’s perfect.

 

I felt kind of like I often did in England at parties or events.  “Where are you from?” people asked after a few words out of my mouth.  Evil Jeano naturally wanted to reply, “Exit 43 on the Schuylkill Expressway”.  No, I restrained myself.  And I have no bloody idea which exit Clifton is on the Yellow Brick Road.  Weybridge, England” I said smugly.  “Damn!  Every single person said, “Yeah, you have a really strange accent.”  Yo!  For the last time.  I don’t have an accent.  I speak English exactly the way our forefathers meant it to sound.

 

After the Schmooze, a few people decided to go for a meal.  We stopped by the Israeli Folk Dancing going on in the Gym; Moshe used to dance and is still very popular with the ladies.  A little too popular, if you ask me.  I was a bit surprised.  “Old friends of mine do Israeli Folk Dancing” I told Moshe.  “Where?  What’s their names?”  “His name is Z’ev Pachter” I started to reply.  “I know him; he dances at the Kaiserman JCC in Northeast Philly” he answered.  Wow.  Another Twilight Zone moment.  I was able to fill Moshe in on all the salacious details of Z’ev and Susan’s bitter divorce. 

 

 Gee, where to go to eat?  Maybe one of the 27 diners within the city limits of Tenafly?  Everybody agreed, as long as it was right on the way to the Garden State, so they could all find their way home afterwards.  All those tomato fields and pine barrens look alike in the dark.   It ended up being eight of us, six men and another woman (Jersey Girl JAP) and me.  The Yiddish flew fast and furious.  Moshe was confused.  It was really fun.

 

Steve offered to drive me back to Exit Whatever, but I had to say that I was going home with Moshe.  He did ask for my number.  What a smooth line!  “You can come over and listen to all sixteen of my ‘Jerry Blavat Presents the Best of Philly Soul’ CDs’.”  Can a JAP refuse an offer like that?  Watch this space.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IT DON’T COME EASY

Published September 17, 2007 by jean cohen
 

On Friday, I had a date.  Yeah, it sounds weird to me too,  just saying it.

 

I knew that I was seeing Moshe on Friday night, but he called me in the morning to say that he had to run into New York City to take a piece of equipment to be repaired and would I like to go and wander around.  I said ‘sure’, and he said, “Okay, we’ll move the time of our date up, to 2 o’clock.”

 

I hung up, and thought, “I have a DATE?”  Then I panicked.  It has been a few years since I thought in terms of ‘dating’.  Yes, I’ve been seeing him, but that’s how I thought of it.  We ‘see’ each other.  We talk, we eat, we do other stuff, he takes me home.   No strings, no emotional stuff.  What exactly did having ‘a date’ commit me to?

 

I approached it logically.  The first thing I did was shave my legs.  Someone who goes on ‘dates’ should not have unsightly hair.  This was actually quite easy since, being a redhead, I have like five hairs on each leg and they’re invisible.  But I used the high powered desk lamp and found all of them.  I put moisturizer on, too. 

 

I rang Moshe to ask “What should I wear?”  A valid question.  “Whatever you want” he unhelpfully answered.  “It depends on where we end up deciding to eat.”  That was two answers.  I admit that I got changed four times.  I settled on casual dressy; my ultra skinny Cashe jeans that cost enough to feed a Paki family for a week.  To Louis Vuitton or not?  No, I decided, I’m always worried someone in NYC will snatch my purse.  The stuff inside is replaceable; my ‘Louies’ are like my children.  I settled on Coach.

 

War paint, train-wreck underwear, perfume, even hair gel.  Did I do this much shit when I was sixteen?  I can’t remember.  Remove the wedding ring and the Cohen Rock (he gets shirty).  I picture Jerry … no, let’s not go there.

 

Moshe picked me up.  He was wearing black jeans and an advertisement.  I think every shirt he owns says ‘MYvideographers’ on it.  A little publicity never hurts.  He hadn’t shaved, but that was because he knows I like it, when we get to the ‘other stuff’ part.  (Maybe you all should forget I said that.)

 

I was very nervous.  I was on a ‘date’ and I thought that I should behave ‘date worthy’.  That meant I had to be nice; no sulking, no tantrums, no sarcasm, no monosyllabic answers.  In other words, no Jeano.  We stopped to listen to a steel band at Times Square for a while.  I amused myself by criticizing the hair, clothes and bodies of every woman who walked by.  Moshe was gobsmacked that I am so catty; I don’t think he really gets me yet, despite the fact that, early on in our ‘seeing’, I admitted to being a proud Jewish American Princess.

 

One serious problem came out; Moshe doesn’t like football.  I know.  How could that be?  And get this- I know some serious piss taking will result – he watches soccer!  He played soccer.  Ugh.

 

Note to Mike:  Notre Dame!  New York Jets!  G-men!  My deepest sympathies.  (That was an outright lie.)  (0 -2) (0-2) (0-2); cool; cooler; coolest. 

 

Moshe brought along his camera.  We had made a wager.  I said that I never take a good picture.  He bet me that he could take ‘movie star quality’ snaps.  He says he has the ‘touch’.  We’ll see; I haven’t seen the photos yet.  As long as he doesn’t suggest any kinky videos… unless he’s an expert on airbrushing thighs.

 

It was actually really nice.  We wandered around, popping into stores or just window shopping.  Moshe went into an electronics store to look at a camera; I waited outside to have a cigarette.  Within four seconds, this guy who worked at the store was chatting me up.  I was fine with it at first; then I suspected he wasn’t really an Israeli.  I stopped smiling and started praying for Moshe to hurry up.  When he finally came out, he laughed and said, “I can’t leave you alone for a second.”  “Ha! Ha!”  I said.  I can be very quick witted.   “Was that guy an Arab?  Why is it always Arab blokes hitting on me?  Why isn’t it ever Cardiologists?”  It was a serious question.  Israelis all have an ‘Arabmeter’.  They can spot them a block away.   The big sweetie said, “Because of your red hair, and the spots I’m not allowed to mention.”  I think it might be because Arab women probably have hairy legs even if they shave every day; mustaches, too.

 

  We had a lovely dinner, and a earth-moving rest of the evening back at his.  Sorry, that’s all you’re getting.  I fell asleep for a little while snuggled up to him in bed.  Moshe woke me; he was hungry again.  He’s always hungry.  He wanted to go to the diner for cheesecake.  Note to Cheese Boy, my jealous fiancé:  That is absolutely, positively 100% true.  And it was made with Philly cream cheese; with chocolate icing; and whipped cream.

 

Moshe dropped me off at 2:00 in the morning, which meant it was, like, a ten hour ‘Date’.   I think I probably got a C, or maybe even a C+, in Dating 101.  I did have, unfortunately, a few Jeano moments.  Honestly, be nice for ten straight hours?  This is not fiction I’m writing.

 

TUA MADRE SI DA PER NIENTE

Published September 12, 2007 by jean cohen

I got a letter from those wonderful folks at the Italian Consulate in Philadelphia.  What did it say, you’re pondering.  Damned if I know; the bloody thing was in Italian.  I sat down with my Italian dictionary, as I mumbled every curse word I could remember in Italian.  My personal favorite: ‘Your mother fucks little boys in the alleys in Naples’.  Not surprisingly, I have never found an appropriate occasion to use that one.

 

The letter said, as I understood it, that there was a problem with my paperwork and that I should call to make an appointment to come in and discuss it.  I was not a happy camper.  Fourteen phone calls, three emails and one letter later, no reply from the goombahs.  So I decided to just go to Philadelphia and show up at the Consulate.  And cry and beg if necessary.

 

I was really worried.  Scary Fairy said it was probably when the official saw my picture with my application. 

 

Scary: “The Consul took one look at the freckles and red hair, and went ‘yeah, like she’s really Italian.  Who does she think she’s kidding?  Sure, we’ll make her a citizen, when the Pope gets married’.”

 

Me: “Puttana! Brutta vacca!  Baciami il culo.  Vai a cagare.  Sta zitto e vai all’inferno!”

 

So off I went on Amtrak to the City of Brotherly Love to kiss some Italian ass.  On the train, I picture the annual Consulate Generals and Embassy Ambassadors Meeting.  I hope it was in somewhere like Amarillo, Texas, in August, at a Howard Johnsons.  I picture my picture being passed around to all the Consuls by Sir David Whatever from the British Embassy.  I’m a little paranoid.  Maybe he warned the Italians I’m dangerous.  I bet he told them I’m not really Italian.  Sir David Poker Up His Ass:  “I say!  Does that overstaying, volunteering, novel writing criminal look even remotely like Sophia Loren?  Except for her thighs?  Jolly right she doesn’t!” 

 

Actually, I like going to Philly; it was a convenient excuse.   I miss home and a visit, even just for the day, gives me a chance to hear American spoken as it was meant to sound, there are yummy cheesesteaks for sale everywhere, and I can shop and shop and shop (without New York tax).

 

Digressing just a bit, I really did have to buy a new Donovan McNabb official jersey and, obviously, one cannot buy one in Mallville.  I am sure that the Eagles lost on Sunday not because their special teams really, really suck, but because I wasn’t wearing my jersey.  It got way too big and I gave it to Stuart.  He forgot to wear it.  Not my fault.  So I got a really cool new one at Modell’s.  The Eagles won’t lose this week, if I have anything to do with it.  Donovan and the special teams guys could also maybe show up ready to play, too.

 

Digressing even more, Scary Fairy forced me to watch the G-men play the Cowboys.  It is hard to enjoy a football game where you are praying for a nuclear bomb to detonate and vaporize both teams simultaneously.  Sadly, somebody had to win; it was the ‘Boys.  Gee, the Giants looked like shit.  That’s just my opinion.  Eli blows, and he’s not Hottie Index worthy.  My opinion, too.

 

Note to the British Embassy:  I honestly don’t know diddley-squat about nuclear bombs; I’m more into Louis Vuitton and diamonds.

 

Okay.  Back to the paisons.  This is so fucking …. Italian.  The official tells me my paperwork is fine.  (Big sigh of relief.)  And it’s okay that I look like a Bridget O’Houhlihan. (I made that one up.)  They woke up one morning, however, and decided it would really annoy prospective citizens if they  changed their procedures.  They now want applicants (me)  to provide the translations of the documents (English to Italian).

 

Me:  “Oh.  Baldracca! You want the translations that I already got, that cost a lot of lira, that you told me you didn’t want, and that you told me your translator had to transcribe?  The ones I brought with me the last time?  Then took home?  Because you said you wouldn’t use them.  The ones that actually are at home, and not with me?  Because I could have brought them, if you had returned any of my fucking phone calls.”

 

Well, that’s what I thought; I didn’t say it.  I smiled and said that of course I would mail the translations…immediately.  I also didn’t say they could have told me this on the phone, and saved me a trip.  Being nice to foreign governments is very stressful, and believe me, I should know.  I had to buy two pairs of really gorgeous boots and a to-die-for sweater to calm myself down afterwards.   So I guess going to Philly wasn’t a complete waste of time.

 

My citizenship is progressing; that’s the important thing.  I try not to dwell on the time passing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

MILK & HONEY

Published September 9, 2007 by jean cohen

I think that the gushing, breathless, scintillating, salacious stuff is over, at least for the moment.

 

In answer to all the emails and comments, my honest answers:

 

a.                  Some of it was true

b.                 Okay, most of it was true

c.                 Yes, I was really nude for a week

d.                 Yes, I smoked weed

e.                  No, I passed on Trail Mix

f.                   The Stefano story was true

g.                 The Ravens fan’s name was Mike, and yes, that urban myth about black guys is absolutely true – Really

h.                 Get over it.

 

Bloggers Note:  I think I censored the entry that discussed the Trail Mix adventure.  It was a little too ‘Too’ if you know what I mean.  Of course, I’m sure I don’t have to explain; you all know what Trail Mix is.

 

So, life in Mallville has returned to normal; Scrabble with Scary Fairy, trying to find an editor/publisher for The Great American Expatriate Novel, an exciting trip to Costco’s, sunning by the pool.   Gee, did I give Pool Guy a surprise; you might think he never saw tits before.

 

The other disclosure a lot of people asked very personal, pointed, and damned newsy questions about was the Israeli Lion.  My fault, I guess, for mentioning him.  My friend, Ellie, in a phone conversation, asked point blank, “Are you really dating an Israeli?”  Upon receiving an affirmative reply, he said “Gee, that’s too bad.”   I guess I should clear up any misconceptions.

 

Moshe is Israeli; he’s from Beersheba.  “I was actually in Beersheba” I was able to say.  “Yeah, you passed it on the way to Elat” he answered.  “No” I answered smugly, “There was a thingy by the Israeli Tourist Board at Ben Gurion University.  And we went to the War Museum.”  I don’t know if that part was right, but it’s a safe bet when talking to an Israeli.  Just say you visited the war monument or museum wherever.  Since there’s a museum to one of the many wars about every mile in Israel, you’ll sound like you really know what you’re talking about. “Which one?” he challenged.  “The one with the captured tanks.”  Another safe answer.

But he’s been in the States for, like, twenty years, so he doesn’t exhibit a great many of the more annoying characteristics of Sabras.  His English is fine, although I can tell it’s not his first language.  It’s a little too precise and he doesn’t understand any of my slang.  He also doesn’t speak a word of Yiddish.  I find that more than a little ironic. 

 

Just for some clarification, Israelis refuse to speak Yiddish; they consider ‘mame-loshn’ or the ‘mother tongue’ the language ‘of the conquered’; hence their decision to make Hebrew their official language.  Both times I was there, I was convinced that everybody knew damned well what I was saying in Yiddish, and just pretended not to understand me.   But unless Moshe wants me to chant a Hamotzi or Hadlakat Nerot, my Hebrew is pretty much non-existent.  He has taught me a few way cool expressions, though.  I do forget and instinctively speak to him in Yiddish; it’s a Jewish thing.  Poor Moshe immediately looks confused and says “What would that mean if you said it in English?”

 

Moshe is fairly tall, about 5’10”, and muscular.  He has curly salt and pepper hair (he has a lot of hair) and really pretty blue eyes.  Scary Fairy said he looks Jewish, which really pissed me off.  Honestly.  What exactly does a Jew look like? 

 

He is a videographer.  His flat has a room crammed with camera and sound equipment, plus computers and stuff I don’t understand for editing the videos.  He does a great many bar and bat mitzvahs, and seemingly every Orthodox wedding in New York.  Jews don’t get married on the Sabbath, so Moshe’s always dashing out on Tuesday or Wednesday nights to video a wedding.  I love watching the unedited videos.  He films other events, too, of course, but the weddings are my favorite.

 

BooBoo Blondie Sister Wife is rather upset with me.  She is worried that I won’t come home to England.  I assured her that it’s just a pleasant way to pass the time, and of course I’m coming home, as soon as the Goombahs get their shit together.  Cheese Boy, my fiancé, is insanely jealous.  This is an actual fact.  Just because we are engaged doesn’t mean that I can’t have sex with hot Israelis while I’ll killing time in Jersey, although he seems to think it does.   Cheese Boy called me a nasty name on the phone; I called him several right back, in British and Yiddish.

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

  

MORE JAMAICA STORIES

Published September 3, 2007 by jean cohen

Thanks a lot for all the emails saying that my blog about visiting Pat up the shore was boring.  Some one, actually a relative, said, “It was boring; it wasn’t funny; and you didn’t have sex there (at least you didn’t mention it if you did).”  Well, there was that guy on the train to Newark

 

Honestly, people, get a life, instead of living vicariously through mine.

 

I’m not sure I can share any more details about what I got up to in Jamaica.  I managed to shock even myself, more than a few times.  Me:  (shaking my head sadly) “Jeano, I really can’t believe you just had sex with that black guy from Baltimore. What the hell did he say his name was?   He’s gorgeous, but he’s a fucking Ravens fan.”  I’m shameless, but the Ravens, after all, are not in the NFC.  It’s not like he was a Redskins fan, is it?

 

Hurricane Dean continued to bear down in a direct path to Jamaica.  The staff went into Crisis Mode.  “No worries, Mon.”  “Did you ever make it with a black guy who’s a bartender?”  “The Ganja Boat can make it here through a Category 6.”  “What hurricane?”

 

People were lined up at the tiny Internet Café trying to change their flights.  No luck in most cases, as everything from Saturday on was cancelled.  I was booked to leave on Friday. 

 

I have to say, seriously for a change, that I enjoyed Hedonism and being appallingly promiscuous for a week.  It’s not really me, though.  It was just something I felt that I had to do, at this stage of my life, for myself.  I did it (actually I did ‘it’ a lot); I’m not anxious to do it again.  Winston asked me to meet him at Hedo again for another week in October (that’s true; really).  I don’t think I want to.  I’d rather meet the girls in Holland.

 

The airport was a madhouse, with people trying to get on flights.  US Air was offering huge incentives to anyone willing to give up their seat.  I really had no commitments to come back to; I just didn’t want to be stuck in Jamaica, alone, during a hurricane.  I came home.  Well, to Clifton.  New Jersey.

 

Scary Fairy and Montana Karen (who was visiting) were impressed by my all-over sunburn, interspersed with new freckles, which I showed off.  I entertained them for hours with my least salacious stories; Scary has led a rather sheltered life.  I didn’t want to shock her.

As I left almost immediately for Pat’s, Moshe had to wait until I got back from the shore to see my all over sunburn; in fact to see me at all.  My Israeli Lion missed me; I gave him a carefully abridged version of my adventures.

 

  

BITTERSWEET, OR MAYBE JUST BITTER

Published September 1, 2007 by jean cohen

I took a few days off from blogging to visit American friends – who live in England – and have a house down the shore.

 

That’s already confusing on many levels.  Pat and Mike, who own the infamous Grotto in Weybridge, are in the States at the moment.  ‘The Shore’ in question is not what Philadelphians consider the seaside.  Everyone from home I spoke to, upon mentioning my trip, asked “Atlantic City?”  “Wildwood?”  Cape May?”

 

“Nope; Ortely Beach.”  Silence.  “You know” I say helpfully.  “Bruce Springsteen?  Asbury Park?  Bay Head?” 

 

“Never heard of it” the Philadelphians all say dismissively, with the attitude towards the Garden State only true natives of the City of Brotherly Love possess.  We all honestly think New Jersey ends abruptly at Cherry Hill or maybe Bordentown, and you need a visa and a case of mosquito repellent to get through the Pine Barrens to Newark Airport.

 

Anyway, I went down the shore to visit Pat, or up the shore, as the case may be.  My knowledge of Jersey geography is sketchy at best.  I have not seen her, obviously, since I was kicked out of Britain, although she did kindly cart a load of my stuff home with her in the winter. 

 

Mike was in New York City working, so Pat and I had two days to catch up on gossip from home (Weybridge) and what we’ve both been up to; not a great deal in my case.   Honestly.  In Clifton?  New Jersey?

 

It was great to see Pat, but really sad too.  It made me really homesick for Weybridge, the Grotto, and everybody there, even Leechy (seriously).   What I wouldn’t give to have Dave mumbling unintelligibly into my face as he sways back and forth in the breeze.  Fond Memories.  Oops.  He took a header into the fireplace again.

 

I know I shouldn’t whinge, but I can’t help it.  I’m not being funny; it’s just not right that Britain hates me so much.  I never did a damned thing wrong while I was there.  Except, of course, commit the vicious crimes of volunteering as a Tea Lady at the Senior Center (I didn’t know it was against the law) and writing a book (still haven’t flogged it to a publisher).    Maybe it’s just me, but these seem slightly less serious than bombing the Underground.  Perhaps it was all about the Queen’s hats after all.   Doesn’t anybody out there know a high-ranking MP I can appeal to or blackmail?

 

BooBoo Blondie Sister Wife actually sent me a live video from Sister Pinkie’s ‘Annual Bank Holiday Weekend Bash’.  This year they called it “The Party After Jeano Has Been Banned Forever.”

 

Since I’ve been gone, Britain has also banned smoking in pubs.  Can you believe that?  This has caused logistical nightmares at the Grotty, as patrons now buy their pints and disappear into the garden, leaving the inside of the pub virtually empty, except for dull non-smokers, and who wants to natter to them anyway?  It has not been too bad yet, as England has been experiencing what passes for ‘summer’ there.  In a few months, however, Pat will have to figure out how to heat and tent Monument Road…all the way to Baker Street.

 

Anyway, it was a brilliant visit.  (Two days with Pat and my ‘British’ returned with a vengeance.  Scary Fairy, upon my return to Mallville, commented “One is not in Weybridge; one should speak American.” 

 

I am looking forward to a quick visit from Sister Pinkie at the end of September.  We’re staying with Pat in New York City.  Pinkie is doing her Casualty Convention in Salt Lake City this year.  Really.  Someone actually convinced a slew of nurses that it’s fun to go to Utah.  Having been to Salt Lake City, I’m still laughing.